A Republic,

If a modern-day politician was trying to find the perfect sentiment to prevent him from ever holding higher office, he might write something like this: “Democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths. Theoretic politicians, who have patronized this species of government, have erroneously supposed that by reducing mankind to a perfect equality in their political rights, they would, at the same time, be perfectly equalized and assimilated in their possessions, their opinions, and their passions.”

Pretty radical stuff, right? Well, it might surprise you to know that those words were, in fact, written by a politician – by a future president of the United States, no less: the Father of the Constitution himself, James Madison. And these weren't the frothy musings of some private diary either; this was an argument explicitly intended for the public. The excerpt above appeared in the 10th installment of the Federalist Papers, the collection of essays intended to win ratification for the Constitution.

If these words fall harshly on modern ears, it's partially attributable to a generational misunderstanding between ourselves and Mr. Madison. For the future president's part, he had in mind the democracies that had existed before the American experiment – generally limited to a small geographical area and tending to bend to the immediate passions of the masses (in ancient Athens, for instance, the voters sentenced six generals to death – after an Athenian military victory). As for us, modern Americans have a sloppy tendency to conflate our entire system of government with “democracy.” Our actual form of government, however, is – as Benjamin Franklin is supposed to have said while leaving the Constitutional Convention – “a republic, if you can keep it.” These days, the prospects don't look great.

The genius of the American system, as initially conceived, is that it boxed in pure democracy at the federal level from all sides. From above, it imposed constitutional restrictions on the reach of the electorate. The Bill of Rights, for example, is nothing if not a rebuke to popular rule, a recognition that there are some liberties so essential that they cannot be compromised by simple majorities. That's the reason that we don't get to determine at the ballot box whether someone gets to freely exercise their religious beliefs or their right to a fair trial. As Madison rightly noted, the passions of the moment could easily sway a democratic mob to injustice. Look no further than those executed Athenian generals – the public came to regret the death sentences and blame the demagogues who whipped them into a frenzy in the first place.

The restraints also work from the bottom up. The major instrument of this check is the oft-neglected 10th Amendment to the Constitution, which reads: “The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.” Translation: if the Constitution doesn't explicitly give the power to Washington, it resides either in the states or entirely outside of the control of government; the notion being that government becomes more responsive as it becomes more local (if you doubt this, conduct an experiment: try to get your city council member on the phone; then try to do the same with your U.S. senator).

Though decades of obsequious federal courts have whittled this guarantee down to a fraction of what it once was, it's still operative today. As a result, residents of California and residents of Texas, for example, can often feel as if they're living in two separate countries. The glory of federalism (the term of art for this decentralization of power) is that it allows communities the discretion to be governed largely according to local mores. A more welcoming jurisdiction is never more than a U-Haul rental away.

Finally, federal authority is flanked from both sides. The president can veto congressional legislation and appoint federal judges. The Congress can override presidential vetoes with a supermajority, as well as impeach and remove judges. The judiciary can invalidate congressional or executive action through its power of judicial review. In essence, gridlock is not a bug in the American system of government; it's a feature – one designed to maximize deliberation, minimize undue concentrations of power, and preserve individual liberty.

All of these factors are essential components of the rule of law. The rule of law, however, is only ever as strong as the will to enforce it. When there are no consequences for violating it, the very notion is made into a mockery. Ask any parent and they will tell you: a rule unenforced is a rule ignored.

So it is today. Does the First Amendment's protection of the freedom of religion mean anything when the federal government may compel employers to provide contraception to their employees in direct violation of their religious convictions? Does the autonomy of the states mean anything when Washington can insert itself in any number of areas – everything from education to speed limits – without hesitation? Are the separation of powers meaningful when the White House simply enacts through executive order policies that it cannot get through the legislative branch, as the Obama administration repeatedly has?

It's easy to blame the federal officials who've sanctioned these abuses of the constitutional process for moving the country away from its legal moorings. That's an entirely fair judgment. Politics, however, is almost always downstream from culture. At least some of the blame lies with a supine populace that doesn't regard such overreach as immediately disqualifying in anyone holding or seeking public office.

In the final judgment, then, the erosion of individual liberties, of federalism, and of our system of checks and balances can be laid partially at the feet of the voters who have allowed it to happen. Such trends don't happen for decades at a time without at least implicit sanction from the electorate.

So emaciated is our sense of reverence for the process the founders gave us that President Obama actually felt compelled to launch an initiative entitled “We Can't Wait,” a slogan used to justify unilateral presidential action in the face of congressional opposition. This is the same President Obama, it should be noted, who has twice sworn a presidential oath pledging “to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States” – a document whose spirit is not “we can't wait,” but, rather “you
must wait.”

The further the country is removed in time from its founding, the further it is removed from it in spirit. Today's electorate seems increasingly focused on empowering government, rather than encumbering it. The rights of individuals, the rights of states, the ability of the various branches of the federal government to check each other – these are increasingly regarded as little more than nettlesome speed bumps keeping government from simply “getting things done.”

Lost in all this angst is the notion that the
process dictated by the Constitution is, in many ways, its substance – a safeguard against rash, illiberal action. There is still time to restore that understanding, but it is quickly running out. We can have unfettered, capricious democracy or we can have a Republic … if we're willing to do what it takes to keep it.

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